Isabel Paterson, Part 1:The Fountainhead's Fountainhead

Has there ever been any mortal more cool than Isabel Paterson?
No, there hasn't.

I am nearing the end of my second reading of Stephen Cox's sublime biography of Ms. Paterson, The Woman and the Dynamo: Isabel Paterson and the Idea of America. It is interesting that Ms. Paterson had a brief, presumably inconsequential, marriage early in her life, because her marriage of consequence turns out to be the perfect match of biographer to biographee. I cannot imagine a more harmonious pairing of sympathetic natures than that of Dr. Cox's with Ms. Paterson's. The offspring of this union is a highly readable, inexhaustively entertaining tribute to the almost-forgotten importance of one of the best minds of the twentieth century.

Oh - how Isabel winced at the application of the phrase "Best Minds" which so permeated the meddlers' and do-gooders' vocabularies before, during, and after the disasterous FDR administrations. Apologies to Pat (her preferred nickname), but I must bestow the title upon her, despite her misgivings. Her mind was an American original (though she was born in and bred mostly in Canada), and it worked with both a precision and abstraction that can leave her reader dazzled by its brilliance and giddied by its implications and possibilities. She so totally rocks!

And she was funny! Dr. Cox makes full use of all her witty aphorisms that brought delight to her readers and consternation to the objects of said observations. His own sly observations throughout the book also contribute to a light-heartedness too rarely found in non-fiction. While he approaches his subject with a seriousness and thoughtfulness worthy of such a giant, he also frames his story of her life and work with humor and good fun. A delightful instance of this that comes to mind is in Chapter 3, "The Unsheltered Life." Dr. Cox quotes from a letter that Isabel wrote later in her life of her "bachelor girl" days in Calgary as a young, unmarried career woman. He frames what she wrote as such: "She 'was thought rather fast' for bucking the fashion by wearing low shoes - 'anything different was fast!' She was free and she enjoyed her freedom, however mindless the freedom might seem."(26) In the next paragraph, Dr. Cox writes of Isabel's lifelong friendship with Grace Luckhart, whom she met at this time: "Around Grace and Isabel clustered a group of friends whose faint impressions linger in correspondence: nice young working women who rented a room in someone's house or shared a cottage with someone; and nice young men, ditto. Undoubtedly, they all enjoyed the feeling that they were very fast."(27) His phrasing is so wonderfully placed - neither crowding or brow-beating Isabel's original statement by coming too close, nor leaving the reader confused by being too obtuse - just a perfect little summation that evokes so easily the innocence and gaiety of a lost time. I can't help but think that Isabel would have chuckled to read it.

My dad (who, being the man of impeccable taste that he is, also loves this biography) wondered aloud in a recent conversation what drew Dr. Cox to exploring and revealing this undeservedly obscure heroine of liberty. I do not know for certain what sparked his curiosity, but I would bet that it had something to do with Ayn Rand. Anyone who has read Rand, her fiction and her non-fiction, and has found a lot to value in her ideas, has probably also read some of the biographical works written about her, in particular Barbara Branden's The Passion of Ayn Rand. And in this and other chronicles, you will come across the figure of Isabel Paterson. Ayn Rand was, for lack of a more Randian term, quite the acolyte of Isabel's in the 1940's. Contemporary observers recall her sitting "at the feet" of Isabel, soaking up everything she could from Pat's vast intellectual storehouse of history, politics, philosophy, etc. Pat had what Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice called, "something more substantial [than the commonly accepted accomplishments suitable for young ladies]...the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." Apparently, Ayn was not much of a reader herself, so the impact of Paterson's influence on Rand's contextual understanding of these subjects should not be underestimated.

So, I imagine that Stephen Cox (who is an admirer of Ayn's and a scholar of her work - he writes for The Journal of Ayn Rand Studies), was intrigued enough by this glimpse into Ayn's background to want to investigate further this person so influential in her life. What a thrill it must have been for him to discover - or, rather, uncover - what one reviewer of his biography called "the lost goddess of libertarianism!" After reading about Pat, I have come to the conclusion that Ayn Rand may be the gold flake floating down the river and into the pan of the miner downstream, but Pat is the vein of gold-ore that lies under the stones and earth. It takes a bit more digging to get to Pat, but the riches reaped far outweigh the cost. She is marvelous - the acuity of her thinking has not been dulled by years of neglect - and she is more relevant than ever. In fact, I would say that she is more relevant than the perennial Ayn, because she had a greater, broader understanding of human nature and a greater generosity of spirit toward the human condition.

Okay, it's going to take a lot more writing than I have time for right now to pay proper homage to this amazing lady and exceptional biography, so I'll entitle this "Part 1" and come back later to write "Part 2" and beyond. If you have never read The God of the Machine, and you care deeply about individual liberty, go right now to Laissez-Faire Books and buy it and read it and make it a part of you! Do it! Then, go to same and buy The Woman and the Dynamo. Two books you'll never regret. And that's my public service announcement for the day.

Peace to all, and more Isabel-adulation to come!

Would Terri Have Wanted to Break Her Parents' Hearts?

In planning our eventual move back to South Dakota, Jason has been faced with the reality, reinforced with rib-poking sauciness and endless teasing by me, that in Sioux Falls he will be under quiet, unspoken, consistent, unrelenting pressure to join the Shriners. His father is a Shriner, his grandfather is a Shriner, and who knows how far back the fez-wearing, tiny-car-driving tradition goes? Jason probably does, but I've never asked him, so I can't record that fact. In any event, Jason (who is emphatically not a joiner) will have to decide whether to stand his ground or give in to the Shrine-ness of his ancestors. I mentioned this little item of Jason's consternation to my father (I mention just about everything to my father - he's that kind of dad), and my father said, "Well, of course he'll join to make his old man happy."

I replied, "Oh, I don't think so. He's not merely apathetic, he's antipathetic to the whole idea."

My dad then thoughtfully answered, "Oh...so he's not to that point yet. Maybe someday he'll see it as a relatively small way to please his father." And he left it at that.

And so, of course, like so many things my dad says in passing, his words continue to resonate, bringing deeper understanding and further dimension to other issues in my life and thoughts.

Like so much of the nation, I was transfixed by the sad situation of Terri Schindler Schiavo in Florida. Unlike so many pro-lifers, I do not get all bent out of shape by right-to-die cases. I know that I wouldn't want to be kept alive artificially on a respirator or some similar device, and I think it's a sin to hold on to earthly life so stubbornly when God is calling you home. That said, I was on the Schindlers' side in this controversy.

First of all, Terri was not terminally ill. She was a severely brain-damaged woman who was kept alive via a liquid diet transmitted through a feeding tube. She was able to swallow her saliva, and, with aggressive therapy, I have learned of no reason to believe that she could not have learned how to eat again, if only through a bottle. Even if she could not have learned this, I don't see how starving a woman who was otherwise healthy is ever an act of mercy. She wasn't even in a hospital. She probably could have been cared for quite well in the Schindlers' home with the aid of a part-time nurse. She was like a big, newborn infant who was probably not ever going to progress beyond that stage, but is that any reason to kill her?

Second of all, I can not, nor will I ever be able to, understand why Michael Schiavo did not just walk away. Many folks say this was because he was deeply committed to fulfilling his wife's deeply held desire to die. I hardly think that an off-hand comment while watching a television show is a "deeply held desire." Who hasn't shuddered at a story like this one and remarked, "I wouldn't want to live that way"? I make off-hand comments all the time - God forbid I be held accountable for them when my life is at stake. I think that Michael Schiavo sincerely wanted to help his wife in the beginning of her incapacitation, but I think that after five years or so, he looked at the next forty or fifty years of this unfulfilling existence stretching before him, and it scared him to the core. How terrible it must be to be barely over thirty and seeing a marital future that holds so little? I think of Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre, fighting off the attack of his mad wife and turning with anger toward the men who have come to accuse him, "This is my wife. Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know -- such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours... Off with you now! I must shut up my prize." Poor Terri - she was not to blame for Michael's feelings of desperation, but it's also not hard to see how he might have felt trapped.

In this way, spouses think differently from parents. With your spouse, love them though you may, forsaking all others as you have promised, there needs to be a common bond that unites you - I doubt that Michael would have exterminated Terri if they had had children together. A spouse is a partner you need for mutual emotional fulfillment and a physical legacy. If the Schiavos had been married for thirty or forty years before Terri's brain damage occurred, I would bet that the bond would have been much more difficult for him to sever. Add to this the fact that Michael did move on to a certain extent - becoming involved extramaritally with a sympathetic woman (who obviously did not possess the qualms that little Jane Eyre did when confronted with a similar option) with whom he produced two children.

Parents do not "move on." They cannot. That's your kid there, nothing will change that fact. Now that I'm a parent, I know that I would never be able to stand by meekly and watch my child die, especially a slow, unnatural death from dehydration and starvation. God forbid that I ever have to. I cannot in the least blame Terri's parents for their decade-long battle to save their daughter's life. No parent worth their salt could do otherwise.

Third of all, the brain is the most mysterious element of the human body. I seriously doubt that we've even scratched the surface of understanding this marvelous organ. Many physicians said that Terri was in a persistent vegetative state - that she was completely unaware of her surroundings and any supposed reaction to stimuli was a mere coincidence. A few physicians said that she was in a minimally conscious state - a hazy, slight awareness of her surroundings with minimal reaction to stimuli. I say that we cannot know what she was able to perceive or the internal workings of her poor, damaged brain. We cannot know if she was able to feel her lips cracking and her eyeballs drying or the sharp pains of her dehydrated organs contracting. We'll never know until Judgment Day, when all the secrets of our inner hearts and the stories of our inner lives are revealed. Would you want to answer for this travesty on that day?

I like what I read on one message board. A woman stated that in terms of technology and medical advancement, the next ten years could have been like ten light years for Terri. You cannot tell from such a distance what breakthrough discoveries will lead to regenerating brain cells or reversing the damage. Why not err on the side of life? We'll never know what treatments might work on patients like Terri if we keep killing them off.

Probably the lamest thing that I heard from the "Kill Terri" side of the debate was from a caller to the Michael Medved radio show. This caller said that, as a Christian, he did not believe that it was right to keep Terri alive because she was in some kind of "limbo state" (not his words, but my own phraseology) in relation to God. He said that since she could not use her mind or willpower to initiate interaction with the Almighty, she was essentially being kept from Him, and it was better to let her die (read: kill her deliberately) than keep her from God. Huh? What Bible has this guy read? Michael Medved then asked him the appropriate follow-up question, which was, "Should we then just kill off every incapacitated child and adult because they lack the ability to initiate this kind of relationship? Where do you stop in determining who is able to interact with God?" I do not remember the caller's reply, but it couldn't have been anything excusable or enlightening, because his premise was so flawed. Our entire relationship with the Creator of the heavens and the earth is based upon His initiation, not ours - His saving grace, not our ability to tell Him what we need - and our proclamations of faith are merely outward evidence of His grace, not vice versa. This guy probably would have looked at my mother, lying in a near-coma, cancer eating through her body, and thought that she had no ability to interact with God. I know for a fact that he would have been incorrect. If you think that Terri was not held continually in Jesus's arms everyday, especially while she lay withering and starving, then you have put God into a box that does His greatness - His absolute inability to be defined and constrained - no justice and will not do you any good at all. God communicates with His children in an entirely different way than humans communicate with each other (maybe this guy gets telephone calls and e-mails from Jesus, but I doubt it). To try to evaluate someone's relationship with Him based upon a person's medical condition is just as futile as trying to read a locked diary. Don't assume there's not good stuff in there, just because you can't see it and no one is telling you anything about it. I bet this "Christian" fellow also thinks that ripping little babies from their pre-born homes is no big deal, because, hey, it's not like they were in any state to initiate a communication with God. What a sad sack!

Anyway, it was such a heart-wrenching case - another example of our nation's entrenchment in the "culture of death." I know Terri's at peace, and I hope her parents will find peace soon. I hope Michael is able to find forgiveness from God for not doing the right thing and walking away and letting Terri's parents have their daughter back. I think that it probably just became a control issue for him. He became so desperate to get out of his marriage to Terri that he grasped onto this (presumably) off-handed comment she once made (which I have little doubt that she did make), found a despicable attorney who latched onto this as a "right-to-die" case to promote his own little warped view of "quality of life," and then he couldn't let it go. How many times have I personally seen people hanging on to bad arguments and ideas after they've been thoroughly shown valueless or even reprehensible, just because letting go means the other side wins? It's a fatal flaw of human nature that we hate to back down from a side we've taken, even when we're wrong, wrong, wrong. This kind of stiff-neckedness can ruin marriages, friendships, international relations, and, as we've seen, lives.

So, here's my final view on this matter, and it's one I haven't really seen addressed anywhere else. It goes back to my initial little story about Jason and the Shriners. Jason is twenty-seven. He's a young guy with young parents, and he's busy with his own life and pursuits. Right now, he has no interest in doing things for his folks for the sole reason that it'd maybe tickle them pink if he did. That doesn't mean he does not love his parents - I know he loves them greatly. He's just not at that stage yet, as my dad said. Who knows? In a few more years, as his dad gets older and frailer and Jason realizes that he will not be around indefinitely, he may reconsider his stance and join up just to give his dad the warm-fuzzy (warm-fezzy?) of having his son continue the tradition. Having lost my own mother at a relatively young age, I've come to that point earlier than most kids. There's nothing I wouldn't do to give my dad a little bit of pleasure - even if it went against my own nature and desires. You do these things because you are so grateful to your parents - for what they've given you in terms of their own sacrifices and love.

So, say Terri at the age of twenty-six really did look into what her future as an invalid might be - dependent on a feeding tube, needing "diaper" changes, unable to read or watch movies or walk or speak - and she did shudder with revulsion and believe in her heart that she would "never want to live like that." Say that everything Michael Schiavo said about his wife was true. Say that by "artificial means" she really did mean nutrition and hydration and not merely the respirator that most of us think of. I can believe that.

But all of the above does not mean that, at the age of forty-one, Terri would have wanted to break her parents' hearts by ending her life. Terri Schiavo, not in pain, perhaps knowing, seeing, feeling more than anyone suspects, would have been so touched by her parents' vigilance - their unceasing devotion to her - their commitment to loving her for the rest of their lives in a way that her husband could not have been reasonably expected to. Could not the twenty-six-year-old have grown to be a woman who wanted to honor her parents by giving them the last thing she could - her life? Would she not have looked into their grief-stricken, desperate eyes, clinging as they did to any avenue of hope for her custody, and said, "Okay, Mom and Dad, I'm yours"? My best guess is, yes.

Peace to the Schindlers. Peace to the Schiavos. Peace to all, and may God forgive our often misguided country.

The Unexpected Poetry of Prose

Anyone who knows me knows I'm not much for poetry. My favorite "poet" is Ogden Nash ("Doggerel!" my father exclaimed jocularly when I confessed this fact), and recently, when I forced myself to read Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," I was nearly lulled into comatosity. I sometimes think that people only write poetry when they lack the musical ability to write songs or the structural discipline to write short stories or novels or essays. Yes, some poets work within other genres, but please note that those poets are usually best known for their accomplishments in those other (more enjoyable) genres (e.g. Shakespeare, Jane Austen, L.M. Montgomery). There are some poems that have stirred my soul (I'm not a complete philistine, you know), but, in general, my assessment of poetry is, "Those who can, write. Those who cannot, compose poetry."

Sometimes, though, I run across something in the prosy line that just reads to me like what poetry should be - beautiful ebb and flow of words with solid, rock-hard sense running underneath like a current - ideas presented so uniquely and mellifluously that the form they take transcends the subject and becomes art. This is the poetry to which I am drawn - poetry of meaningful communication and not just a bunch of flowery claptrap. One such piece is an open letter I found on the website of Libertarians for Life (www.l4l.org). It is not surprising to find that these words were penned by a musician, since they are alive with music. I am posting them here (with all due credit to the source) for your reading pleasure.

An Open Letter to Eddie Vedder

When is a woman not a woman?

Therein lies the only clear refutation of a woman’s rights.

A woman’s rights —

seems a mere tautology, a redundant catch phrase.

Are not rights self evident?

Intrinsic assumptions of the inalienable?

So, when is a woman not a woman,

a right not a right?

When she doesn’t exist.

When does a woman become a woman?

Is it when her first ballot has been cast?

Or when she graduates from her class?

Is it when she makes a wish on her sweet sixteenth?

Would I be amiss if it were her first kiss?

Is it when she’s diagnosed by the boy next door?

Or as ambiguous as the cutting of the cord?

Is it the time it takes to travel the distance through the canal?

Or when she’s kicking and becomes viable?

Is it when her sex is discovered by a sonogram?

Or after eight weeks when the changes in her body will be mainly in dimension?

Is it when her brain waves are detected after 40 days?

Or is it around three weeks when her primitive heart beats?

Can there be only one true line of demarcation?

One finite measurable point in time that differentiates

life from non-life?

Womanhood from non-womanhood?

Rights from no right?

Is it the moment of conception —

that point when all of the above is set in motion?

That precise moment when

"a separate human individual, with her own genetic code,

needing only food, water, and oxygen, comes into existence"?

Indeed,

It is at that point,

"like the infant, the child, the adolescent,

that the conceptus is a being who is becoming,

not a becoming striving toward being.

She is not a potential life,

she is a life with great potential".

She is not the mother,

she is an other —

a somebody other than the mother.

A woman,

however beautiful, however complex when fully grown,

begins life as a single cell, a zygote —

that stage in human development through which we all pass.

She fulfills "the four criteria necessary to all life —

metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction.

Her genetic makeup is established at conception,

determining to a great extent

her own individual, physical characteristics":

her eyes, her hair, her skin color, bone structure, her gender.

So let us not be confused,

"she did not come from a zygote — she once was a zygote.

She did not come from an embryo, she once was an embryo.

She did not come from a fetus, she once was a fetus".

She did not come from a little girl — she once was a little girl.

When is a woman not a woman?

The answer is absolute, non-negotiable.

To argue against would be to ignore the innate,

the fact of the matter.

The answer can never be a matter of opinion or choice.

This is not a metaphysical contention.

This is biology 101.

The answer is scientifically self-evident —

as inherent as the inalienable.

Therefore,

the ability to pursue happiness

is contingent upon liberty —

her liberty,

and her freedom is solely dependent upon

the mother of all human rights...

the right of life.

Respectfully,

Gary Cherone

(June 1999)

[Quotations by Francis J. Beckwith]

Copyright ©1999, Gary Cherone

Credit for source must be given to Rock for Life.

The Angriest Pro-Lifer - An Appreciation of Jill Stanek

A little while ago, shortly after writing my post Choose? Life, I e-mailed it to Dave Andrusko of NRLC, a man I respect so heartily for his commitment everyday to shining the light of truth on the darkness of abortion (and other disregardings of the sanctity of life). He was kind enough to e-mail me back that he appreciated my thoughtfulness on the issue of the phrase "choose life," but that the goal was to be gently non-judgmental when confronting prospective aborting women. And that is all well and good, and I can understand his point of view and the way that the NRLC attempts to walk the fine line between effective communication of the horror of abortion and not offending the very people they most want to reach. The NRLC is a wonderful tool for pro-lifers who need resources to fight the genteel fight in the nicest possible way - you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, bless those who curse you, love your enemies, etc.

BUT, sometimes I just get so angry! So very angry with those who willfully destroy life at its most vulnerable stages. I don't want to play Ms. Nice Person; I want to take the gloves off and call those child murderers what they are. I get tired of having endless sympathy for women who abort. I get tired of the new pro-life trend of seeing them as victims as much as the children they hired hit men to kill. I get tired of pro-lifers letting the other side dictate the terms from which any discussion originates. I get so angry I shake. Sometimes, while just sitting there, minding my own business, it hits me that in America today, women are allowed to kill at will their children, and that fact never ceases to stun me, to knock the very breath out of me. It is so opposite of everything that this country was founded upon, and yet it is treated with such a sense of blase. So, when a mood like this overwhelms me, and I simply cannot bear it any longer, I take pleasure in the writings of Jill Stanek - the angriest pro-lifer of all.

Ms. Stanek is wonderful. Her writings are sharp, prickly, full of the moral indignation with which I so fully empathize. She is merciless when it comes to exposing the real bankruptcy of the pro-abortion death-mongers. She pulls no pinpricks, let alone punches. Every aspect of what the reality of legal, on-demand abortion has been in our deluded country is ruthlessly (and often quite wittily - as humorously as possible when the topic is infanticide) examined, and every shadow of our national abortion shame has a flood-light shone upon it. She writes movingly, heart-wrenchingly, concisely, convincingly, and with such refreshing anger and candor. I admire her so greatly. Her writings are such an outlet for my turbulent emotions - she gives a voice to my heart's cries of anguish.

Visit her site and read her columns at www.jillstanek.net.

I do not think that anger in this instance is misplaced. Jesus Himself had appropriate anger - He was angered by all affronts to His Father and religious hypocrisy, and I'll bet He's very much angered by all the people out there playing God today by deciding that they are the ultimate arbiters of life. Of course, Jesus will offer grace and forgiveness to abortionists and women who have had abortions, just as He offers grace and forgiveness to all truly repentant sinners. I do think that God wants us to experience our anger and then make steps toward resolving it, though. Be angry and do not sin: do no let the sun go down on your wrath, nor give place to the devil (Eph. 4:26-27). So, it is right for me to feel this anger, to let it strengthen my resolve to do all I can to end this atrocity, then to let it go. Ms. Stanek's writings are just such the catalyst I need to vent my darker frustrations, and the NRLC is just the support frame I need to re-arm positively for the battle ahead. God is so gracious to give me and other pro-lifers these tools.

Please, Lord Jesus, forgive our country.

Plus Ca Change, Plus Ce La Meme Chose...

The following column, written by George Will, appeared April 2, 1982. Read it and, alas, weep.

***********************
The Killing Will Not Stop
The baby was born in Bloomington, Ind., the sort of academic community where medical facilities are more apt to be excellent than moral judgments are. Like one of every 700 or so babies, this one had Down's syndrome, a genetic defect involving varying degrees of retardation and, sometimes, serious physical defects.

The baby needed serious but feasible surgery to enable food to reach its stomach. The parents refused the surgery, and presumably refused to yield custody to any of the couples eager to become the baby's guardians. The parents chose to starve their baby to death. Their lawyer concocted an Orwellian euphemism for this refusal of potentially life-saving treatment—"Treatment to do nothing." It is an old story: language must be mutilated when a perfumed rationalization of an act is incompatible with a straightforward description of the act.

Indiana courts, accommodating the law to the Zeitgeist, refused to order surgery, and thus sanctioned the homicide. Common sense and common usage require use of the word "homicide." The law usually encompasses homicides by negligence. The Indiana killing was worse. It was the result of premeditated, aggressive, tenacious action, in the hospital and in courts.

Such homicides can no longer be considered aberrations, or culturally incongruous. They are part of a social program to serve the convenience of adults by authorizing adults to destroy inconvenient young life. The parents' legal arguments, conducted in private, reportedly emphasized— what else?—"freedom of choice." The freedom to choose to kill inconvenient life is being extended, precisely as predicted, beyond fetal life to categories of inconvenient infants, such as Down's syndrome babies.

There is no reason—none—to doubt that if the baby had not had Down's syndrome the operation would have been ordered without hesitation, almost certainly, by the parents or, if not by them, by the courts. Therefore the baby was killed because it was retarded. I defy the parents and their medical and legal accomplices to explain why, by the principles affirmed in this case, parents do not have a right to kill by calculated neglect any Down's syndrome child—regardless of any medical need—or any other baby that parents decide would be inconvenient.

Indeed, the parents' lawyer implied as much when, justifying the starvation, he emphasized that even if successful the surgery would not have corrected the retardation. That is, the Down's syndrome was sufficient reason for starving the baby. But the broader message of this case is that being an unwanted baby is a capital offense.

In 1973 the Supreme Court created a virtually unrestrictable right to kill fetuses. Critics of the ruling were alarmed because the court failed to dispatch the burden of saying why the fetus, which unquestionably is alive, is not protectable life. Critics were alarmed also because the court, having incoherently emphasized "viability," offered no intelligible, let alone serious, reason why birth should be the point at which discretionary killing stops. Critics feared what the Indiana homicide demonstrates: the killing will not stop.

The values and passions, as well as the logic of some portions of the "abortion rights" movement, have always pointed beyond abortion, toward something like the Indiana outcome, which affirms a broader right to kill. Some people have used the silly argument that it is impossible to know when life begins. (The serious argument is about when a "person" protectable by law should be said to exist.) So what could be done about the awkward fact that a newborn, even a retarded newborn, is so incontestably alive?

The trick is to argue that the lives of certain kinds of newborns, like the lives of fetuses, are not sufficiently "meaningful"—a word that figured in the 1973 ruling—to merit any protection that inconveniences an adult's freedom of choice.

The Indiana parents consulted with doctors about the "treatment" they chose. But this was not at any point, in any sense, a medical decision. Such homicides in hospitals are common and will become more so now that a state's courts have given them an imprimatur. There should be interesting litigation now that Indiana courts—whether they understand this or not—are going to decide which categories of newborns (besides Down's syndrome children) can be killed by mandatory neglect.

Hours after the baby died, the parents' lawyer was on the "CBS Morning News" praising his clients' "courage." He said, "The easiest thing would have been to defer, let somebody else make that decision."

Oh? Someone had to deliberate about whether or not to starve the baby? When did it become natural, even necessary, in Indiana for parents to sit around debating whether to love or starve their newborns? The lawyer said it was a "no-win situation" because "there would have been horrific trauma— trauma to the child who would never have enjoyed a —a quality of life of—of any sort, trauma to the family, trauma to society." In this "no-win" situation, the parents won: the county was prevented from ordering surgery; prospective adopters were frustrated; the baby is dead. Furthermore, how is society traumatized whenever a Down's syndrome baby is not killed? It was, I believe, George Orwell who warned that insincerity is the enemy of sensible language.

Someone should counsel the counselor to stop babbling about Down's syndrome children not having "any sort" of quality of life. The task of convincing communities to provide services and human sympathy for the retarded is difficult enough without incoherent lawyers laying down the law about whose life does and whose does not have "meaning."

The Washington Post headlined its report: "The Demise of 'Infant Doe'" (the name used in court). "Demise," indeed. That suggests an event unplanned, even perhaps unexplained. ("The Demise of Abraham Lincoln"?) The Post's story began: "An Indiana couple, backed by the state's highest court and the family doctor, allowed their severely retarded newborn baby to die last Thursday night. . . ." But "severely retarded" is a misjudgment (also appearing in The New York Times) that is both a cause and an effect of cases like the one in Indiana. There is no way of knowing, and no reason to believe, that the baby would have been "severely retarded." A small fraction of Down's syndrome children are severely retarded. The degree of retardation cannot be known at birth. Furthermore, such children are dramatically responsive to infant stimulation and other early interventions. But, like other children, they need to eat.

When a commentator has a direct personal interest in an issue, it behooves him to say so. Some of my best friends are Down's syndrome citizens. (Citizens is what Down's syndrome children are if they avoid being homicide victims in hospitals.) Jonathan Will, 10, fourth-grader and Orioles fan (and the best Wiffle-ball hitter in southern Maryland), has Down's syndrome. He does not "suffer from" (as newspapers are wont to say) Down's syndrome. He suffers from nothing, except anxiety about the Orioles' lousy start.

He is doing nicely, thank you. But he is bound to have quite enough problems dealing with society—receiving rights, let alone empathy. He can do without people like Infant Doe's parents, and courts like Indiana's asserting by their actions the principle that people like him are less than fully human. On the evidence, Down's syndrome citizens have little to learn about being human from the people responsible for the death of Infant Doe.
***********************************
Please pray for Terri and her family.

The above was copied from "Today's News & Views" which is the excellent daily e-mail update I receive from Dave Andrusko of the National Right to Life Committee. To its ending, I would add please pray for our misguided country, that we would be delivered from this culture of death that has encompassed our formerly noble nation. In a lot of ways, it all started with Roe vs. Wade in 1973...Roe has to go!

Sadie and Jesus

"There's a world of wonders waiting in store just outside our door, but the greatest thing that we ever will do is kneel by your bedside and introduce you to the One Who first thought of the wonder of you, your Father in Heaven." --Carolyn Arends, "Your Father in Heaven" from the album We've Been Waiting For You: The Parenthood Project

This past Sunday, Sadie, who now goes to "big girl" Sunday school instead of the church nursery, had a poopy-butt when we retrieved her at the end of service. While I was changing her in the bathroom, I asked her conversationally what she had learned that day. She told me that she colored a picture of Jesus. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and told me that she had been taught how to pray to Jesus. That's just one of those moments you live for as a parent. I got all choked up, right in the middle of a diaper change in the church bathroom. She's learning how to pray to Jesus. Wow.

Last night, we had our first "official" goodnight prayers session together after her two bedtime stories and drink of water. I've been waiting since before I was even pregnant to share this moment with her. We knelt together and clasped our hands before us. I told her that I would start, and she could add whatever she wanted to say at the end. So I started by thanking Jesus for His gift of salvation, for another day of watching Sadie grow, for my marriage to Jason, for our respective families, for our house, our sustenance, our church, our community, our troops, our country, and so on. Then I asked Sadie if she would like to add anything else for which she was thankful. She added that she was thankful for the park and dogs. Then I asked for God's protection over our family's health and safety, and for Him to watch especially over the vulnerable children of the world, born and unborn. We said, "Amen!" and she crawled into bed for her lullabies. Another milestone reached. I am so grateful.

Then, just this morning, I was singing a song about Jesus, and Sadie suddenly said, "I love Jesus..." and, as I started to beam with motherly pride and gratitude, she made my jaw drop by adding, "...because Jesus is a bad-ass." Oh dear. Well, He is. But, I think we'll have to work this kink out before next Sunday...

On the Verge of a Miracle...

"The realisation that one is to be hanged in the morning concentrates the mind wonderfully. "
--Samuel Johnson

Isn't it amazing how, when people are faced with their own mortality, the chains that bind them to this world creak and crack and fall away and they are freed? Thank you so much for that post about Ray Charles - I don't read that magazine (Rolling Stone), nor do I listen to his music, but his words were very powerful and moved me incredibly (See: "Ray Charles on Praise" at Carolyn Arends's blog: www.carolynarends.com/cgi-bin/cablog/blogger.cgi).


I had a similar experience with my mother on the day before she died. She had always said that when she died, she would have no regrets. She was not the sort of person who admitted to any kind of weakness easily. She had divorced two husbands and was on the verge of divorcing her third when she found out that her previously-in-remission breast cancer had spread to her liver, and she had about six months to live (in actuality, it was only three months). She did not have contact with two of her three brothers. She and I had recently ended a year of "not talking" and were trying to heal our often turbulent relationship. Even after the diagnosis, she was still her stubborn, hard-as-nails self, making me promise that I would not let either of her two estranged brothers into any memorial service we might plan. She had her death as well organized as her life. Not a thing happened that she hadn't carefully planned for. Every emotion that she had seemed to be well-ordered and accounted for. I felt somewhat foolish every time I broke into tears while talking to her. She seemed to approach death with the same detached impassivity that had left me so cold over the years. I had been a Christian for almost three years when this occured, and I had stumblingly tried to discuss my faith with my mother a few times, but had never felt that we were at the same dinner party, let alone having the same dish. I prayed and prayed for her peace and for God's grace to fall upon her. She never discussed anything with me, other than the practical "stuff of earth."

The night before she died was Thanksgiving. After a bleak and solemn meal with my to-be-husband and aunt and uncle (the one brother she talked to), I crept into my mother's bedroom, just to be still and close to her. The Hospice nurses had told us that she was practically in a coma, that the cancer had spread to her brain, and that she wouldn't be alive much longer. I just wanted to be alone with her, in the dark as we must have spent many an hour when I was a nursing baby or a toddler awakened by a bad dream or a sick child, to try to ponder the mystery that she had always been to me, and to be near her in love as she prepared to leave this world. I lay on the bed next to her, listening to her breathing, occasionally touching her in wonder that this vital woman, who had been to me almost like a force of nature, was now a shrunken shell.

Sometimes, God lets us be witnesses to miracles. He does it every time we bring a new, tiny, yelling baby into this world, and He did it that night for me and my mom. In the stillness, my mother, whom I had been told that I would never hear speak again, starting to call out. Her voice was rough and hoarse (I'm sure she hadn't much saliva available to speak well), but its cry was unmistakable. She was crying over and over, full of raw emotion, "Jesus, forgive me. Please forgive me, Jesus. Jesus...Jesus, forgive me. Jesus...Jesus...Please forgive me..." Over and over the words tumbled out of her, like the floodgates of life pouring out, and I felt His presence there as I never had before, even upon my own conversion. I trembled with awe (and finally understood the real meaning behind this phrase), and the atmosphere in the room suddenly grew lighter and easier somehow, as if the burdens my mother carried and the burden I had carried from years of a really rotten relationship with her were simply lifted. His yoke is easy, His burden is light. And I knew that my mother was closer to experiencing the full reality of life at that hour so close to her death than she had ever been in her busy and immaculately-planned existence.

Aside from the privilege of being mom to Sadie, this night six years ago stands out as the greatest blessing (among countless blessings) that I have ever been given. When my mother took her last earthly breath the following afternoon, I was able to be filled with hope in the midst of my grief. What a gift, not only for my mother to receive the Living Water of the Lord, but for Him to allow me to witness this intimate moment between Him and His child! He knew that I needed this as much as she, and He does not give us stones in lieu of bread. My mom...such a cool, self-sufficient, indomitable presence she had seemed to me her entire life. In the end, in her desperate crying out, when all her defenses were stripped bare, when all the barriers she had built up in this world had crumbled to dust, she found a God Who is so very good - His grace is, well, amazing - His mercy is boundless.

I'm glad that Ray Charles had a little more time than my mother to live with the eternal in sight. I hope that he was able to fall upon the grace of Jesus with a whole heart, knowing that forgiveness is always available. Who knows? Maybe we'll see him in concert soon (I'd like to see Keith Green and Ray Charles jamming on pianos with Rich Mullins on the hammered dulcimer, Carolyn Arends on guitar - and sax too! it is heaven after all - Spencer Capier on violin, with a whole angel choir singing backup - aren't you going to love concerts in His kingdom?). Jesus told us He was coming back quickly (God's version of "quickly" seems a little long, but this clay won't question the Potter), and I want to chime in with John, "Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!" But He really does come so quickly, even in this late age, when you call His name ("When Your love comes down, You take my soul by storm - You take my soul by storm." --Carolyn Arends). I am so grateful that He still stands ready to open eyes and soften hearts.

Rich Mullins wrote such a great song that sums up so beautifully that moment before you know the Lord. I wasn't thinking of this song on the night my mother cried out - I was too deep in grief and regrets to think of anything other than the moment at hand - but I have never listened to this song since without remembering that night. I would like to copy the lyrics out, so you'll see what I mean:

"Verge of a Miracle"
Words and music by Rich Mullins
Copyrighted 1986 by BMG Songs, Inc. (ASCAP)

Clung to a ball that was hung in the sky
Hurled into orbit - there you are
Whether you fall down or whether you fly
Seems you can never get too far
Someone's waiting to put wings
Upon your flightless heart

Chorus:
You're on the verge of a miracle
Standing there - oh -
You're on the verge of a miracle
Just waiting to be believed in
Open your eyes and see
You're on the verge of a miracle

Here in your room where nobody can see
Voices are loud but seldom clear
But beneath the confusion that's running so deep
There is a promise you must hear
The love that seems so far away
Is standing very near

Repeat Chorus

When you've played out your last chance
And your directions have all been lost
When the roads that you look down are all dead ends
Look up - you could see if you just look up

What an incredible talent God housed in that clay vessel, Rich Mullins! The generosity of God is such that He shared him with us for as long as He did.

Peace to all...

Living the Simple Life with Gratitude, Not Guilt

I recently checked a book out of the library entitled, Living Simply with Children: A Voluntary Simplicity Guide for Moms, Dads and Kids Who Want to Reclaim the Bliss of Children and the Joy of Parenting by Marie Sherlock. This sounded like my kind of book. My goal for Sadie (and our future children, D.V.) has always been to offer her a complete, old-fashioned kind of childhood - safe, secure, loving, carefree, wholesome, preserving her innocence, etc. I have long thought that the best way to do this is to live simply - taking joys and sorrows as they come - not complicating her young life with too many flashy toys or overwhelming situations - providing a haven against commercialization and materialism - instilling to the best of my abilities a sense of gratitude based upon strong faith. So far, this lifestyle has been easy to provide, but I know it will get more and more difficult as she gets older and more independent. So, I'm always on the lookout for tips from other parents for achieving this goal, which is why I picked up this book with more than a little interest.

Unfortunately, I was only able to get through the first three chapters before I had to give up in disgust. The lady who wrote this book seemed to have a chip on her shoulder that was a cinder block. Within the first three chapters that I read, she mentioned the current Bush administration three times, never flatteringly. Now, I can understand not liking the Bush administration, but what in the world does that have to do with raising children simply? I mean, I don't like some of the things that have been a part of this President's policies, but in some ways the administration has enhanced my ability to live a simple life. For instance, the tax cuts he advocated have been a real help to our family - any extra money we have to use in our single-income household or give to a charity of our choice is a welcome blessing and takes us closer to the kind of lives we want to live.

Another thing that really bothered me was the attitude throughout the three chapters that seemed to say that we should live simply because most of the rest of the world is in poverty and it's (somehow) all our fault as Americans. Many of the parents whom she quoted in the book were raising their children with this guilt-based philosophy, which I hardly think is a simple way to raise children. What is simple about weighing down a childhood with a sense of guilt everyday? That seems like a way to burden children that is unconscionable. How can children grow up with a sense of optimism and joy under such a dark cloud?

How much better would it be to raise children with gratitude instead of guilt? How much better to instill the virtues of earthly stewardship upon their hearts than the fear of ecological devastation? How much better to teach children to give much because they have been given much by God than to see third-world poverty as somehow their fault? How much better to choose walking and bicycle riding for transportation because of health and family-togetherness than to view automobiles as gas-guzzling destroyers? How much better to introduce them to living with and among animals and let their natural love for God's creation shine through than to somehow say that humans and animals are at odds, with humans always in the wrong?

To me, living simply is about making choices that will enhance your child's innate sense of wonder and joy at the world around them. I think that humans are naturally rather simple - God certainly made us naked and in a garden; what's more simple than that? I think that sin is what leads us to complicate our lives - that desire to over-think and over-do and over-use - to always be looking past what He gives to more, more, more ("I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want, than take what You give that I need." --Rich Mullins, "Hold Me, Jesus"). Also, the sin of wanting to be in control over everything, including other people, to "play God" in other words, is what leads to things like poverty, genocide, mass-disease, etc. If people everywhere were free, if they had economic liberty and political liberty and religious liberty, you would not see such widespread inequality among the nations.

I'll never forget the horrible problem of the starving Ethiopians in the 1980s. For a while, you couldn't turn around without seeing a tragic portrait of a starving child with a bloated belly besieged by flies and filth staring piteously out at you from a magazine cover. Developed nations everywhere, and the United States in particular (as always), sprung into immediate action - poured out their hearts and emptied their wallets at the plight of these innocents. My school had a fund-raiser to send money to a group who would send food to these poor souls. With great zeal, I eagerly followed the news stories of the relief efforts. I was horrified that children should die for lack of food and clean water. Food and supplies were sent in crate after crate after crate - and what happened? If I remember correctly, most of it sat, rotting on the Ethiopian tarmac, unable to reach the needy because a corrupt government was blocking distribution; the rest, I believe went directly to that corrupt government's storehouses and coffers. That taught me a fundamental lesson I shall never forget. I learned that there is not poverty in the world because Americans (read: Christians - those are the only Americans that the gloom-and-doomers like to blame for our manifold "evils") do not fulfill their call to action on behalf of the poor - there is poverty because most of the poor live under such wretched oppression - unable to receive that which Americans (Christians) so freely wish to give.

I do not feel guilty at all for the blessings I enjoy daily, but I am humbled by them and grateful for them. I think that if I were to feel guilty for these gifts, it would be an affront to the Giver. Living life well with a full and giving heart is the greatest proof of His grace. Because my heart is so filled with gratitude, its desire is to serve Jesus as He wills. This is the only way I've found that leads to joy and fulfillment, and it is because the Way found me that I can truly say that I have all that I need in this life. And what is more simple than that?

The Fam Not-So Close Up 

The Fam Close Up 

Yeah - Whatcha want? 

Let me tell ya somethin', Paly! 

Our Last Great Hope

The greatest fighters for freedom today are homeschooling parents. They are the best hope for the future of America, perhaps even the last hope as we continue this slow, terrible slide into collectivism and banality. Though the term has been overused almost to the point of meaninglessness, I call these parents my heroes. The most heroic of this movement are the parents who fought in court for legal protection of homeschooling (mostly in the 1970s and 1980s, but today as well) and a terrific group called the HomeSchool Legal Defense Association (HSLDA).

If you really want to know what America should be, you need look no further than homeschoolers. These families are amazing. The parents are so dedicated to growing their children's minds and nurturing their innate abilities and curiosity. The children are so confident and positive and energetic. You can tell within a few moments of conversation that they are individuals with their own goals and dreams and directions. I have never met an obnoxious or anti-social homeschooled child (and I have met plenty over the years). They are comfortable around all ages, conversing as easily with adults as with toddlers - gentle, sweet, genuine. These are real kids, neat kids, the kinds of kids you always want to be around - comfortable in their own skin, becoming who they are.

It takes a lot of courage to homeschool your children, especially for the parents who really defined and modernized the movement 20-30 years ago, but, to some extent, even today. American society got sold the bill of goods on compulsory public education about 100 years ago, and most folks still cling to it like some sort of talisman of societal virtue or golden idol of democratic ideals. You can convince otherwise sane people that stupid ideas and misbegotten policies will miraculously work if they are implemented through the "gov'ment schools."

Somewhere along the line, a bunch of authoritarian meddlers decided that children should be made to go into a building (no matter what the weather was like outside) with 30 other kids their age (no matter what learning level they were currently at) and sit at tiny desks (no matter what their size or comfort level) and not talk or move around much for hours on end (no matter how much they wanted to exercise young bodies full of energy or young minds longing to interact) and stare at a chalkboard while listening to a droning voice and copy things over and over again as a group (no matter whether they understood the material an hour earlier or weren't yet ready for the material at all). This group-think kills - it kills innovation, curiosity, ingenuity, motivation, excitement, and imagination - it kills minds. Can you believe we do this to children starting at age six? I can think of no worse way to inspire a life-long love of learning in children.

Homeschooling parents know what other parents have forgotten - learning is as natural for children as breathing. There is nothing in the world more beautiful than guiding, facilitating, encouraging children to learn, to experience, to grow. "Homeschooling" is not a very good term for the miracle that occurs in almost 2 million households across America on a daily basis - not much of what goes on in these homes resembles anything like "school." There is no conformity, there is no collectivism, there are no hours of idleness, boredom and tedium. This is not to say that homeschooling is a bed of petunias or a gliding ride over calm waters - it's a tough, gutsy, sometimes rocky path, but the rewards (according to every homeschooling parent and child I've talked to) far, far outweigh the moments of frustration, exhaustion, doubt, and societal hostility.

And there still is quite a bit of hostility out there toward homeschoolers. Many folks of a statist bent have a vested interest in molding their idea of what a "good citizen" should be through the convenience of public school indoctrination, and they resent immensely anyone bucking their well-plotted system by raising children as thinking individuals. They've infiltrated most private schools with their daffy schemes and petty rules, and so they are content to leave them be. But homeschoolers are a very stubborn mule of a different color - rejecting the paternal state in all its "wisdom" and creating a vivid world of enrichment and stimulation for their children against which pea-green institutional walls, chalkboard dust, urine-scented public restrooms and asphalt-covered playgrounds can never compete.

What chaps their hides the most is how far the homeschoolers outshine publicos in any sort of scholarly test, proving, of course, these gov'ment experts' obsolescence and general insignificance. Nobody likes to be discarded as irrevelant, least of all would-be educational messiahs who dispense their theories and practices to the unwashed masses with great condescension and smugness. They want you to believe that you cannot teach your children - that they will be deprived of an education that only a "professional" can provide - that they will grow up to be emotionally maladjusted - that they will never get into a good college with only a "homeschooled diploma" - that they will be miserable introverts who will never make it in this scary world. Don't you believe them!! Anyone with common sense, a nurturing heart, a natural curiosity, a true commitment to their children's development as individuals, and a whole lot of gumption can teach their children. Heck, those qualifications alone make you a better "teacher" than 90% of those with degrees in education!

As a future homeschooling mom, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the brave and dedicated parents who paved the way to bring homeschooling out of the shadows and into the light as a viable (and truly preferable) educational alternative. I will have it so easy, compared to my predecessors. Most of them have only their own consciences and (at least one hopes) their children to say, "Good job!" and "Thank you!" and "You have really made a difference," and "You've made the world a better place." Because, they have made the world a better place. Children who grow up to be critical thinkers, strong individuals, well-grounded in their sense of themselves and their ties to their families and communities, forever curious and confident and optimistic - those are the children who are going to be the hope of the future - perhaps our last great hope.

Choose? Life

At the March for Life in Olympia last month, I signed a petition to allow for the creation of a "Choose Life" license plate for automobiles, the extra proceeds from which would go to support crisis pregnancy centers and health care for pregnant women in our state. I support both crisis pregnancy centers and health care for pregnant women (especially when funded voluntarily), so it was only natural for me to add my name to the list. It was only later when I started to rethink this idea.

Choosing between life and death is an imperative decision. In Deuteronomy 30:19, Moses said to the children of Israel: I call heaven and earth as witnesses today against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing; therefore, choose life, that both you and your descendants may live. This statement only refers to spiritual life, humanity's relationship with God. The life that one is called to choose is one of obedience to God's plan - the laws of the Old Testament and the grace of the New Testament. One of my most constant prayers is that those still walking the razor's edge between spiritual fulfillment and spiritual bankruptcy will choose life, for in Him was life and the life was the light of men; and the light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not comprehend it (John 1:4-5).

This, of course, is not the choice that the license plate supporters are thinking of. These kind and well-intentioned people are stating "choose life" to women who might otherwise abort their children. Their hope is that, by seeing this plate on the back of someone's car, a pregnant woman might have a call to conscience, and the funds provided by the sale of the plates will help give the woman options to continue her pregnancy. I really, really like this idea, and I will certainly buy one of these plates if they make it past the pro-abortion legislature in this state. I'm just a little uneasy about the terminology. It seems as though we are conceding an important point to the other side. The point being that allowing a life that has already begun to continue growing is a legitimate "choice" for the woman in whom the life happens to reside. This almost feeds into the big lie of the pro-aborts - that one can be "pro-life" and "pro-choice." When we ask a woman to "choose life," we are subliminally telling her that she does have some kind of choice about whether another human being lives or dies.

What if, in the pre-Civil War era, abolitionists had made little buttons that said, "Choose Liberty!" and had sold them and used the proceeds to fund the Underground Railroad and schools for African-American children? Certainly choosing freedom is better than choosing slavery. But, is this a legitimate statement, or does it simply validate slave-holders' idea that slavery was a debatable choice? That slavery was never a legitimate concept, had no place in a free society, and abolitionists were not circumspect in laying those ideas out without compromise are the foundations upon which slavery was abolished in this country. When we talk about rights that are self-evident (life, liberty and property - thanks Locke!), there should be no wiggle-room for saying that someone has any sort of "choice" to initiate force to remove those rights from another.

Pro-lifers are today's abolitionists, fighting the greatest battle for an oppressed group since the horrific days of slavery. We must also be without compromise, not ceding one inch to the death-mongers, whether semantically, ethically, or philosophically. We needn't worry too much - we're on the right side - but we must be ever-vigilant. The pro-aborts like nothing better than to twist our ideas and statements into their own warped anti-life agenda. I hope things like the "Choose Life" license plate help save babies' lives, because that's really what it's all about, but I would prefer if we took the idea of "choice" out of this good intention. Maybe "Protect Life" would be a better slogan or "Respect Life" or some similar idea. I personally would like my favorite mottos on some license plates:

Abortion: Destroys Humans, Destroys Our Humanity
Your right to abort ends where your baby's DNA code begins.
The Non-Initiation of Force Begins in the Womb (stolen in part from Feminists For Life)
Abortion is not a right, it is a grievous wrong.
Without Life, There Are No Choices.

Peace to you, and may God forgive our country.

O Brother John, Where Art Thou?

But Peter, seeing [John], said to Jesus, "But, Lord, what about this man?"
Jesus said to him, "If I will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow Me."
Then this saying went out among the brethren that this disciple would not die. Yet Jesus did not say to him that he would not die, but, "If I will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?" John 21:21-23 (NKJV)

Church history tells us that the Apostle John was an old man when he wrote those lines in his gospel account. Church records show evidence of his living at least until the turn of the first century. John certainly must have been looking at his aging self, having seen the other apostles die martyrs' deaths, and written those lines with a good dose of irony - surely the fountain of youth had not been given to him. And yet...and yet...

It is a tradition in the Eastern Orthodox Church that John did not die in 98 A.D. (the common date of death accepted by the Western Church); rather, he has never died. An account of this tradition is found in the Slavonic edition of the book, The Great Collection of the Lives of the Saints, published in 1914 by the Christian Print Shop of the Transfiguration Alms House in Moscow (translated in English by the Chrysostom Press, House Springs, MO in 1994). According to the legend, John returned to Ephesus and stayed in the house of Domnus. He converted many and performed miracles. One morning, before dawn, he took some of his followers to a place to pray. Then he ordered them to dig a grave as deep as his height in the form of a cross. He had them cover him with earth to the neck. They kissed him for the last time and placed a cloth over his face, wept bitterly and then covered him entirely. Others soon after, on hearing about this, dug up his grave and found nothing. (All this information is from www.lastday.net/apostle.htm, posted by Mel Miller in 1999.)

I first heard about this legend a few years ago, and it has intrigued me ever since. I'm not sure if this tradition means that he is still in this world, or whether he was taken up to heaven in the manner of Elijah, but I prefer to think of the former. I mean, what a cool idea - the Beloved Disciple out there wandering around, waiting for Jesus to return. I can imagine him sitting there in Ephesus before his exile to Patmos, writing these last few lines of his gospel account, thinking that old age was going to claim him soon, perhaps regretting that he could not have died a martyr's death like so many of his brethren, but taking comfort in the fact that he would soon join the Lord and his friends. How the Son of Thunder must chafe under the burden of patience if Jesus has really made him live and wait these past two thousand years!

Of course, this brings me to my main frustration with John. First of all, whether he is still alive or not, everyone agrees that he lived to an extremely old age (most Christian sources last report him close to his nineties). Secondly, his ministry ended up being a lot more stable and stationary than those of the other disciples and Paul. Taking these two facts into account, why oh why did John leave us with this tantalizing end to his gospel account?

And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.
John 21:25

Granted that John could not have written everything that Jesus did, why didn't he at least write a few more things that Jesus did? I love The Gospel According to John. It is so unique. It took me a little time to get used to the style and substance of the writing, since it is a much more poetic and spiritual account than the synoptics, but now I love it just as much as the others, maybe more. Whenever I read straight through the New Testament, though, I am always left just wanting more of Jesus - more of what He did, what He said, how He looked, how He acted. I get so jealous of the people who lived at that time, especially the disciples. They got to live and talk and eat and sleep and travel and generally hang out with God. And then, most of them didn't even record anything about Jesus, except Matthew, Peter (through his interpreter Mark), and John. Luke seems to have collected his gospel account material from a variety of sources, so he probably got some information from the other disciples and followers of Jesus. Now, I know most of these men and women went forth to do great things for God and His kingdom, and they didn't have a lot of time to sit around and dictate or write historical documents. And, I also realize that many expected Jesus's return to be imminent, so they probably did not think that many historical documents were needed for a posterity that was not to be. That is why I finger John in my frustration. I just think that, out of all the likely candidates for recording the earthly ministry of Jesus, he's the one who could have written more.

I'm very grateful to have the Word. I certainly do not want to seem without gratitude for the richness of Biblical writings than have been passed down to us. It always humbles me to know that God still cares so much about fallen humanity that He makes certain His word is available to seekers, even in this late age. I guess I just wish that I could read more about what it was like actually to be in the presence of Jesus. I know we have the gift of the Holy Spirit, but I want to know what it's like to look in His eyes. My greatest hope is that someday I will know. Then, all the things of this world will melt away, all my questions will be answered, and I'll be left with an eternity to worship Him. Amen to that!

Hey W.E.R.G.-Y Gergy, Hey Kalamazoo!

Okay, I have been listening to The Wiggles waaaay too much, but that title's the one that's sticking...

I got a newsletter/flyer yesterday from a group called Washington Evangelicals for Responsible Government (W.E.R.G.). They want me to take part in a "Mayday for Marriage" rally in Olympia on Tuesday, March 8. I must say that when I first looked over this newsletter, I thought, "Where was W.E.R.G. on January 19?"

Faithful blog readers will recall that that was this year's date for the annual March for Life in Olympia, WA. These readers may even recall my indignation that once again evangelical, Protestant Christians were noticeably absent from the pro-life crowd. Why weren't the W.E.R.G. banners and signs right next to those of the Knights of Columbus, Sacred Heart Academy, and other Catholic organizations and congregations? What the heck is the matter with non-Catholic Christians that we'll ignore infanticide and expend our energies on fighting gay marriage? What is more important to God: fighting for the lives of the smallest and most innocent among us or fighting against a civil institution's being changed?

For someone with heartfelt, strong opinions on almost every controversial topic, I am strangely apathetic to gay marriage. I'll allow a moment for the collective gasp from those who know me to echo and die out... I mean, here's the deal: gay marriage will never be acceptable in God's eyes, but neither will pagan marriage or atheistic marriage or second marriages after divorce or countless other aberrations of God's law. Marriage in God's eyes is a sacred and holy institution, akin to the relationship Jesus has with His church. This fact, of course, doesn't seem to stop non-Catholic Christians from divorcing at a rate that keeps up with and sometimes exceeds secular unions. Marriage in the United States is a civil institution, and, as long as government is involved in marriage, I don't see how we will be able to justify excluding committed homosexual couples from participating. Change marriage law to what you will, you will never change God's law. So, I'm neither in favor of it or against it. If it happens...whatever.

Homosexuality doesn't really get my goat too much, as it is does not involve the initiation of force or any victims other than the participants. Abortion is a far greater crime, innocent children being dismembered, suctioned, burned to death by saline, all with the consent and collusion of their mothers. Even divorce is a greater crime, as it is an emotional abortion of children, robbing them of their innocence, searing their souls with a loss of stability and security that children need and deserve. Abortion and divorce are flip sides of the same coin - self-absorption and malignant selfishness, refusing to do the right thing if it's at all inconvenient or the tiniest bit difficult for you. You'd never know that by looking at the Christian (non-Catholic) church. We're too busy fighting the speck of gay marriage to see the plank of our own shortcomings.

Unless something can be condemned or condoned on other than religious arguments, I have a difficult time mixing civil law with God's law. See, abortion can be condemned on wholly secular grounds, i.e. scientific and philosophical grounds. You needn't have any religious convictions at all to want to ban this heinous crime, but if you have religious convictions, especially those of the Judeo-Christian variety, I fail to see how you can support this vile deed. In other words, you don't have to believe in God to be pro-life, but you cannot be a Christian (in anything other than name only) and be pro-choice. I suppose there are non-religious people out there who are against gay marriage, but I have yet to hear any good arguments against it that don't boil down to "God created them man and woman." So, as long as gay couples do not interfere with freedom of religion by demanding that their unions be sanctified in a church service or that churches allow them use of church facilities, I just can't see how they will be stopped. Yep, I find it a bit creepy and unsettling to think of children being taught in schools that marriage can be any old hodgepodge of gender choices, but I find a lot of what goes on in schools creepy and unsettling - that's why I'm planning to homeschool.

So, anyway, W.E.R.G.-Y Gergy, I think I'll sit this one out. Hope to see you next January in Olympia, though. I'll be the one there with the good-looking husband, the pretty daughter and the absent rosary.

A Matter of Perspective

Today, Sadie and I got the baby backpack out, as has become our habit on sunny days, and went for a walk. Usually we go to the shopping center about a mile away or the library about 1.5 miles away, or, if there have been three sunny days in a row, we go to the neighborhood park. Since the sun has been shining all week, it was bound to be a park day. We set off merrily, sweet Sadie perched koala-like upon my back, singing songs, saying "hi" to people, dogs, birds and flowers. I decided to take a bit of a long route to the park, so I went about 1/2 mile out of the way and approached the park from an opposite entrance of our usual one. Sadie, who almost always starts yelling, "Park! Park!" when we turn down the usual street, remained completely unaware of our destination. Even when we could see the slides and swings, she still seemed rather confused as to where we were. Eventually, when we settled the backpack on the ground near our favorite park bench, Sadie got excited and ran off toward the swings.

This experience made me remember how different perspective is when you are a little one. The only time I ever recall being sent to bed without dinner was the time I got myself lost by crossing the street. I think I was punished for crossing the street alone, because I was never lost to my parents, as I was always within sight of the house. I'll never forget that day, though. I can't remember my exact age - probably between four and five. I wasn't trying to run away, or even go anywhere if I recall correctly. Somehow, I ended up crossing the quiet residential street where we lived and promptly became hopelessly lost. I remember looking around, not knowing where I was. I probably saw our house right across the street where I had left it, but failed to recognize it. I had never seen it from that angle before, so it was a foreign entity to me. I stared down the seemingly endless sidewalk, bordered by strange and now slightly threatening houses and lawns and trees and more and more houses. I made up my mind that I would walk to the grocery store where we shopped (probably 4 miles away) and tell them my parents' names and have them call my parents to come pick me up. How I ever thought I'd find my way to the store, I'll never know. That was my drastic, yet apparently rational, plan of action. Now, keep in mind that this was in the late 1970s, when a few Californians, my parents included, actually knew and interacted with their neighbors. You would think that I could have just gone to a neighbor's house and asked for help. Except, in losing my house, I lost my perspective of where any familiar house was. Crying and bewildered, I started stumbling down the street. Then, my dad bounded across the street and grabbed me and carried me back to our house (25 steps away). My mighty and perilous adventure had probably lasted less than 5 minutes. Oh boy - my parents yelled and hollered and spanked and sent me to bed without supper. The only reason I can imagine for this exaggerated response was their wishing to instill upon me that crossing streets alone was a big no-no. The funny thing is, and I can remember thinking this at the time, I had never even wanted to cross the street. I hadn't even known that I was across the street. I just became somehow so wrapped up in my child's imagination that I was simply oblivious.

This memory is one of the scariest things about being a parent. The wonderful world of children just captivates them so completely that it leaves them terribly vulnerable. The price of the immeasurable joys of parenthood is eternal vigilance.

Jason will read this and knowingly nod his head, experienced as he is with my formidable sense of direction and my comprehensive geographical expertise. He will know now that the woman who gets lost coming home from the post office was once a little girl who got lost crossing the street. Heck, I've gotten lost (sort of) a few times in our own neighborhood. I've always managed to find my way back, and at least the grocery store is a lot closer now if I need to call for a pick-up. Maybe I am still too wrapped up in my imagination, the richness of my interior world. I would have made a lousy pioneer wife (although I make darn good cornbread).

I got my mom and dad to show me later where they found me when I was lost. Even at that young age, I remember being a little embarassed when we crossed the street (holding hands, looking both ways) and stood just a few feet south of directly, smack-dab across from our house. I felt so foolish to look at our yellow house, with its distinctive front hedges and think that I missed it. I totally missed it. I don't know if they ever believed me when I said I was lost - it must have seemed incredible to them. I'm glad I remember it, though. Now, when Sadie doesn't know where we are, I know how it appears to her, and I can help her with perspective.

Sometimes, I just get down and spend some time at her height. It's a different world down there - chairs are huge! Trying to see the world from her point of view is eye-opening, to say the least. They see so much that we miss from 5 1/2+ feet off the ground, and they miss so much that we see. Their perspective is unique, their scope is narrow. Our perspective is universal, our scope is broad. There is beauty in both, and my hope is that, as Sadie grows, she will be able to integrate these visions to appreciate still the details of this world while, at the same time, not missing the big picture (or the house right across the street!).

With Carolyn Arends, Oct. 2003
(my hair is not marcelled, just a clumsy photo-editing attempt to correct for a lighting problem)

The Non-Initiation of Force

"Behold," the Risen Christ said in His revelation to John, "I stand at the door and knock."
(Revelation 3:20)

Jesus is the ultimate example of one of the primary libertarian philosophies, the non-initiation of force. He doesn't say: Behold, I'm coming in, ready or not! or Behold, I'm dragging you out of there! He knocks, He waits, He knocks again. Sometimes He says, "Knock, and the door will be opened! (Matthew 7:7)" In any event, no matter who is knocking, no one is kicking the door in; He is not about coercion. (A sidenote: When was the last time the BATF knocked?) He changes our hearts by His steadfast love, and we bend our wills to His out of gratitude and devotion. He persuades, He never pressures.

Those of both liberal and conservative bents tend to like force. Oh, they never want to say it's force, it's just democracy or security or some other euphemistic expression. They never trust people at large, but they certainly trust themselves to direct the lives of people at large. God knows that the human heart is sinful and deceitful, but He gives us free will and choices and grace. God's plan involves changing individual hearts, not collective societies.

Compulsion is anti-life, anti-Jesus. God built us to be free, He designed us to seek liberty, He loves us and holds us responsible as individuals. Amy Grant's mother once told her, "God doesn't have grandchildren." Each and every one of us will have to give a personal account of our lives on this earth, and God won't find finger-pointing and whining and excuses acceptable on that Judgement Day. Even Ayn Rand found Christianity less loathsome than other religions (although still loathsome, stalwart atheist that she was) because of its emphasis on the individual's soul, the individual's redemption.

This strong belief I have in the non-initiation of force is why I value so highly capitalism and free markets. People's transactions should be voluntary, whether spiritual, economic, physical or emotional. There is no more moral economic system in the world than that of laissez-faire, free-market capitalism, because it is the only system not based upon compulsion. It is a beautiful thing to see the Invisible Hand of the marketplace in action.

Economic liberty combined with Christian love and charity added to a good dose of self-responsibility is the recipe for peace and fulfillment on all levels, whether of nations or individuals.

My (Not So) Secret Sympathies...

Ever since the 2004 Presidential election, there have been news stories and speculation about disenchanted Democrats and other leftward-leaners packing up and moving out of the U.S. and into Canada or Australia or New Zealand or France. They do not want to contribute any more time or energy or taxes to a government that does not reflect their beliefs. Living up here near Seattle (which is pretty much almost Canada anyway), I have seen several recent news stories about people who have gone beyond consideration and actually have plans in action to make the big move. One local radio host even devoted an hour to a lady-leftie who had put her Volvo on the market and had applied for a conjugal visa to immigrate north and live with her Canadian boyfriend. I was amused but not surprised at the responses of the callers who alternately bid her a "don't-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out" farewell or reprimanded her for not sticking it out in the U.S. and working to promote her own values within the system. These latter folks seem appalled that someone could so cavalierly leave their country behind. I cannot understand their almost hurt reaction to a person's not choosing their national affiliation over their personal, individual convictions. I am fully in sympathy with those who hate the Bush administration so much that they cannot stand to live any longer in this country.

You see, I have a little secret of my own. These Canada-bounds and I are flip sides of the same coin. While they are planning a move up north, I am plotting my own move east. No, not "Boston east," "Midwest east." Destination: Jesus Land. I'm tired of living in Blue America, and I want to live where land is cheap and plentiful, the gov'ment stays out of your way, and Jason can easily follow his entreprenurial dreams in a business-friendly place. More than anything, I want to live in a state where there is only one clinic that performs abortions, where no tax money goes to fund abortion, and where, when Roe vs. Wade finally gets overturned, abortion will be outlawed (except, most likely, for "life of the mother" cases). Whoo-hoo! South Dakota here I come!

Gosh, I love so much of what Washington State has to offer. I love the climate, the trees, the mountains, the museums, the Woodland Park Zoo, the Seattle Aquarium, the coffee culture, the abundance of really good Thai food, the laid-back attitude. I love the Seattle Mariners! I will miss this state when we leave. But, but, but...for a family that wants to own about 25 acres with a big, ol' farmhouse and horses, cows, goats and dogs and not have to wait 20 years to save up the moola needed for such an estate when the kids will be grown and gone and unable to grow up in that environment, this area just doesn't cut it. Plus, it has become more and more difficult for me to stomach this place since I discovered that some of my tax money goes to killing tiny babies.

We're only given one life on this earth, and I can totally understand why people feel the need to live where their values are reflected. Two years ago, I told Jason (who has been yearning for Big Sky Country practically since he moved out of SD ten years ago) that if Tom Daschle were ever voted out of office, I would move back to Sioux Falls with him. This seemed like a pie-in-the-sky condition, as T.D. had been a popular senator for some years and was good at bringing home the pork. Then, lo and behold, Thuney-Baby (aka John Thune) knocks the fox out of the henhouse. At the same time, decent, pro-life, pro-business Dino Rossi gets the governorship of WA stolen from him by evil troll-lady Christine Gregoire. What's a free-market-loving pro-lifer to do?

We can buy a house, comparable to the one we now own, in Sioux Falls for about $100 Grand less. The homeschooling laws are even more libertarian than those of Washington (and WA has very free homeschooling laws). Sales tax is 2% lower. No income tax, and no one seems to be bandying that idea around like so many do here in WA. No congestion. Business friendly. Near grandparents (yay - a much needed and appreciated aspect). Clean air. Open spaces. Can-do frontier attitude (except all the farmers on the dole - stupid welfare farmers!). Horrible weather (but, you can't have everything in this world - at least it keeps the riff-raff out!).

It's so wonderful that we live in a world of such diversity, that you can find a place in it to live out what you value most highly with like-minded folks. That's the marketplace of ideas for you.

The Bug! 

Sadie joins the "horsey set." 

Ayn Rand at 100

Today is the 100th anniversary of Ayn Rand's birth. Happy birthday, Ayn!

Her writings, fiction and non-fiction, were, other than my father, the single greatest influence on my life and thoughts and points-of-view from the ages of 15 to 21. I remember cutting class as a sophomore in high school to escape to the local park and read The Fountainhead under a tree. I remember weeping so loudly in my bed while reading We the Living that I brought my dad into my room in alarm. I remember reading Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal and The New Left: The Anti-Industrial Revolution, arming myself with the moral justifications for laissez-faire capitalism. I think I've read everything Ayn ever wrote.

I really love her earlier fictional works. We the Living and The Fountainhead are still two of my favorite and constant re-reads. I have an especial fondness for her unpublished early works that were collected in The Early Ayn Rand. I never really took to Atlas Shrugged, although the story about the Twentieth Century Motor Company is one of my all-time favorite vignettes. The fact that she wrote that ponderous tome in the midst of an adoring circle of acolytes probably led to its being mired down with unwieldy diatribes and philosophical expoundings that interrupt an otherwise fascinating narrative. I think that it would have been a much more effective novel if the philosophy had been illustrated by letting the events of the story play out without so many soapbox speeches. In other words, show us, don't tell us. That is the beauty of We the Living and The Fountainhead - she gets her points across without whacking you with a 2x4 of philosophical dissertation.

I always ended up liking her "secondary stature" heroes better than her primary heroes. For instance, Gail Wynand is a far more developed and attractive character (IMHO) than Howard Roark. Francisco d'Anconia beats ol' John Galt hollow. Hank Rearden also beats out that pontificating-proned, blowhard-genius as far as being a realistic, charismatic man. And is there really anyone out there who doesn't think Kira a bit of a fool to choose the annoying, dispirited Leo over the sexy, leather-coated, Communist bad-boy Andrei? I can't even imagine having a conversation with her primary heroes, let alone making love with them. They are often too abstract and vague to be appealing. Boy, did my young heart swoon over the Wynands and d'Anconias and Taganovs, though!

In honor of her 100th birthday, I'm going to re-read The Fountainhead. It's been a few years since the last time I read it. I'm looking forward to that warm sense of entering a benevolent universe when I turn to the first page and read, "Howard Roark laughed."

I wonder what the atheistic Ayn thought when she met God face-to-face...

The Delicious Hours

Some folks call them the "witching hours," but, to me, they are the delicious hours. That elastic period of time in the dead still of night, roughly between the hours of midnight and 3 AM, where little night owls like me get our hoots in ("funny hoots" as Sadie would say).

I love this time of night. I'm not always up at this time, but when I am, it still retains for me that sort-of wicked unlawfulness that so filled me with exuberance and glee as a child and teen. There is something a little fey about padding around in the stillness, trying not to awaken baby or husband, reading books or typing on the computer or just staring out the window. I used to work with a wonderful man of faith named John Gabriel who, when my work schedule was changed to early morning shifts and I was voicing my dismay at having to abandon my nighttime prowls, reminded me of the great Biblical patriarchs who experienced especial closeness to God in the breaking hour of dawn, yadda, yadda, yadda... God did not make me to be a patriarch, that is for sure, and I am certain He created me to be the late-night delinquent that I am. Believe me, I have never felt particularly close to Him in those vile, alarm-clanging, eye-crusty-rubbing, yawning, often softly-swearing moments of early morning awakenings. My greatest moments of prayer and devotion and meditation have all come when the sun has set and the stars are out. But, John also gave me one of those great, zinging, change-your-perspective, never-leave-you moments when he responded to another one of my complaining bouts, (I really don't complain as much as you may think I do by reading this post. Really.) wherein I emphatically stated that I "hated" something, with the reminder that, "We [humans] do not hate anything even half as much as God hates sin." So, John and his guilt-inducing patriarch statement will elude my censure, because his sin statement will always fill me with such gratitude.

I blame my dad a little too for these late-night revels. He was (and, to some extent, still is) the consummate night-owl, always up late, lurking. He taught me by example to lurk with aplomb, and I embraced the lurking lifestyle with a fervor that could only do him proud. We would watch TV together or read in silent, harmonious companionship or talk about anything and everything. We would snack devilishly on all sorts of inedibles that would have caused my mother incredible heartache had she been privy to the deed. It is probably the memories of these wonderful bonding sessions that makes me think of this time of night as "delicious." Those were just sweet, sweet times, my dad and I, two peas in a pod, cut of the same cloth, the little apple and her tree. These times are always what I hope to recreate somehow when we visit nowadays, but...well, travel fatigue and age are a hindrance on his side and family responsibilities are a hindrance on mine. Though Dad and I try valiantly to recapture our routine and lurking ways, I guess those golden nights are mostly gone. I hope he knows how much I miss them, and how grateful I am that they will live forever in my memory, growing sweeter still with each passing year.

Carolyn Arends once wrote in a song that part of God's code that we can't (or won't) decode is the "way our hearts beat, faced with the sunrise, like maybe they know something we don't." I don't know if my heart's ever done somersaults at the sight of a sunrise; if it does, I'm usually too grouchy and in need of coffee to notice (sorry, heart). But, I have felt that furious beating when contemplating the great expanse of black night sky and countless starry holes - that feeling that something wonderful is going to happen or is happening or maybe just happened. God is in the night as much as the day, and, don't forget, He made the night first (I know He worked His way up during Creation, but He picked a good place to start). May He bless the night owls everywhere.